


but I have promises to keep

by WingsOfTime



Series: ikael [27]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Gen, He's fine though, Relationship Study, Tea, all the metaphors, dream metaphors, drink metaphors, heavy imagery, more important conversations on Beds, other char has a line or two but not enough to tag, plot-driven hospitalization, thancred's side of things, they're the only shadowbringers spoiler
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-27
Updated: 2019-07-27
Packaged: 2020-07-23 04:17:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20002198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WingsOfTime/pseuds/WingsOfTime
Summary: Ikael has... begun to settle things between him and Thancred in his own mind. He is learning, accepting, and growing.What about Thancred?





	but I have promises to keep

**Author's Note:**

> (title taken from the robert frost poem)  
> set post-shb and contains really only one spoiler which you can see in like. the second line 
> 
> I know I always say this but I really really love this one! I hope you do too <3

_“Thancred!_ No, please—”

Ryne? _Ryne,_ he tries to say, but his mouth isn’t working. Nothing is working that should be, he realizes as his body slowly shuts down, the ice-hot pain spreading from his shoulder too much for it to handle. Thancred stumbles to the ground, and he doesn’t—can’t—catch himself.

His last thought as his vision goes black is that at least Ryne is safe.

~*~

Thancred drifts in and out of consciousness in the next empty stretch of eternity.

“Get him—yes, to a cleaner room, please. I’ll pay for it. Yes, with nicer pillows, thank you.”

“Ikael—” Ryne’s voice, soaked in tears.

“… alright, sweetheart. He’ll be alright.”

Thancred feels something warm clasp his hand. He tries to clasp back, but he finds he cannot move his fingers.

He sinks into slumber once more.

~*~

 _Promise me you’ll stay, Thancred_ , _Ikael whispers at him. His voice is in the wind, caressing Thancred’s face and breathing against his ears and kissing his windburned lips and pressing against him intimately close, but susurrating so quiet and so far that he can barely hear it._

_Promise me, Thancred, Ikael breathes, and it is all Thancred can do to stop his heartbeat long enough to hear the words._

_An inhale, and it starts again. Tha-thump. Promise you what? Thancred asks desperately. His voice reaches into silence, and he says not a word. Someone has stolen his voice. Please, tell me. Please, tell me what you need._

_Ikael looks at him, quiet and solemn. Thancred cannot see him. He knows he is there._

_Promise me that you’ll find me, says Ikael. Promise me that you’ll need me. That you’ll love me._

_He is beginning to disappear. Ikael, Thancred begs, pleads, desperately. Please, stay! Stay here with me!_

_Thancred is all alone. He does not know where he is, who he is, how he got here. Please. Please do not leave him. Ikael? Ikael, I promise._

_Ikael’s green eyes are open. They snap open once more, expanding into blackness._

_Give me your heart, he says, and he reaches into Thancred and grabs it._

_~*~_

There is something warm and heavy surrounding him.

It is a nice sort of warmth, Thancred thinks as he tries to unglue his eyelids. Comforting and all-encompassing, like how he might imagine a caterpillar would feel in their cocoon.

Or a gunbreaker in his blanket, he realizes as his eyelids finally unstick themselves.

Someone is humming. It is a little off-key, but disregarding that, it is soft, melodic and overall a pleasant sound. Thancred shifts his gaze to see who it is—a herculean effort—and sees Ikael standing at a table littered with various medical tchotchkes, his back to him.

His tail is swaying back and forth in a slow, hypnotic sort of way. Thancred finds himself staring at its brown tip until Ikael turns around, and the contact is broken.

“Oh, you’re awake.” Ikael smiles at him, warmth lifting the corners of his eyes. He is holding two steaming mugs. “How are you feeling, _sína_?”

Thancred attempts to open his mouth, and is met with the neutrally unpleasant feeling and sound of his lips unsealing. “Fantastic,” he croaks.

“Do you want some water? Here.” Ikael sets the mugs on a nightstand by Thancred's head, and reaches back to seemingly magically procure a glass of water. He lifts it to Thancred's lips, tipping gently, and coaxes him through a few sips.

Once Thancred finds his vocal cords seem to work once more, he tries to speak again. This time, the words come with relative ease. “What happened?”

“Ah.” Ikael picks up one of the mugs, cradling it with both hands, and takes a sip from it. “Some brave, foolish soul stepped in front of a blow that wasn’t meant for him, I heard. The only account I have is from the little girl who would have been hit in his stead.”

Ryne. “Is she—” Thancred manages, straining upright in his urgency, and Ikael is already nodding.

“She is fine, Thancred,” he says softly. His eyes crinkle fondly. “It is you everyone is worried about. And by everyone, I mean the two of us.”

Thancred slowly falls back against his pillow, heaving a long, tired sigh. “Apologies from this soul for being brave and foolish both,” he murmurs. “Mostly in worrying you.”

Not for stepping in front of Ryne, which they both know he would do again without hesitation.

“Braveness and foolishness go hand in hand.” Ikael’s lids close halfway, and he regards Thancred with something that would be offensive to interpret as just affection. He takes another sip of his drink. Thancred can now tell it has cinnamon in it, from the sweetly spiced scent that is gently wafting to him.

He spends a few long minutes simply looking at Ikael, taking in his appearance and greedily soaking up the ease and comfort his presence is exuding. That he is this calm means that Ryne was not, but Thancred cannot find it in himself to wish for Ikael’s panic and anguish. It is long past the time, he thinks, for that to be flattering in any way.

“You say Ryne is fine?” Thancred asks after too long a pause. Ikael does not begrudge him it.

“She’s sleeping,” he replies, taking another sip.

“She is not slumped unconscious by a chair near my bedside that I somehow cannot see, having passed out bells ago because she refused to leave my side to eat or drink, is she?” Thancred jokes weakly. Humour is something he scrabbles for in times of uncertainty, and he finds that even now he has a hold on it, however tenuous.

Ikael’s mouth tips upwards in a small smile. “No, that was me,” he says. He shifts in his seat, adjusting his posture. “I put her to bed. Poor thing was hysterical.”

“On the contrary, you seem quite calm,” Thancred replies. He does not know what prompts the words, or the slight rise in his tone, but he finds that he does not quite want to take it back.

Ikael's eyes fill with something startlingly and jarringly emotional, but all he does is smile once more, just barely. “Thank you. I learned from the best.”

Ah. Thancred smiles back, feeble and tinged with an echo of regret. Ikael drags his chair forwards, leans down so their faces are close.

“What do you need?” he asks. His voice is too steady, too certainly kind—Thancred has to close his eyes so he does not thaw into nothingness from the strength of it.

“Just,” he says hoarsely. He clears his throat. “Just stay here with me, please. Your company is…”

He does not finish his sentence, but Ikael seems to understand, thank the Twelve. He leans achingly close to press a soft, lingering kiss to Thancred's forehead before he draws back, his warmth retreating. Thancred has to stop himself from crying out for him to come back, to stay close to him. He swallows.

He hears the delicate clink of ceramic. When he opens his eyes, he sees Ikael setting his mug down next to what was probably supposed to be Thancred's, pushing them so they will not fall. Ikael glances up as he feels his gaze, and smiles.

“You can go to sleep, _sína_ ,” he reassures. “I will not leave you, I promise.”

 _I promise_.

Thancred's lids flutter shut once more, and he falls asleep to the lullaby of tumultuous dreams.

~*~

_Thancred and Ikael stand together on a beach. Their hands are clasped tightly; Thancred looks at that, and then at Ikael._

_“You are not my Ikael,” he says._

_Ikael does not look at him. There are black chains wrapped around his feet. “No,” he replies._

_Thancred stares out at the ocean. He watches the waves lap at the shore for a long, long time. Finally, he turns back to Ikael._

_“Why do you hound me?” he asks._

_Ikael looks at him. His eyes are Void-black._

_“Why are you dragging me with you?” he returns._

_Thancred cannot answer that. “What is your name?” he tries. At the very least, if this is not Ikael, he wants to know who it is._

_Ikael’s black eyes are unfathomable. “I am What Could Have Been, Thancred,” he says. “I am here, and you are keeping me here. Just as I want to keep you.”_

~*~

This time, when Thancred awakens, he knows where he is, and what happened to him. He also has a lot more feeling through his body, and upon some experimental jostling, finds he can move most of it as well. It means that he notices that his shoulder and the area around it is by contrast numb and immobile, but he finds he does not mind.

Ikael is still sitting by his bed as he had promised, and appears to be reading his journal. Thancred squints at the pince-nez perched on his nose.

“You don’t need that to read, do you?” he asks.

Ikael glances up. He shuts the journal with a smile, placing it on the nightstand next to the mugs. “No,” he says. “These are unspelled, actually—I was just testing out the look. What do you think? Sexy?”

He winks, smile widening into an—oddly familiar—roguish grin. Thancred considers him, short and insincerely if thoroughly, and says, “No. I do not think it really works with your face.”

“Oh, thank the gods.” Ikael plucks the pince-nez off his nose with a wince, squinting instinctively as the glass moves in front of his eyes. “These are actually very uncomfortable, you know.”

He sets them on top of his journal and looks at Thancred, stretching his face and ears. There are two small red imprints on either side of his nose.

“Ikael,” says Thancred, because the thought is beating against the inside of his mouth and he feels as if it will scream if it is not let out, “I need to ask you something.”

Ikael make a gesture for him to go ahead, stifling a yawn.

“I—well, first,” Thancred readjusts, nodding at the twin mugs still sitting on his nightstand (although no longer visibly warm), “Is that for me? And is there any way you can heat it up?”

Ikael throws him a small smile. He picks up the mug that is not empty, and presses his forefinger to the bottom of it, as if pushing up on something. He waits, pursing his lips, and roughly thirty seconds later, steam is once again curling in the air.

“Got these mugs special from the gift shoppe here,” he says, carefully handing it to Thancred. “Imbued with a fire shard.”

Thancred blows gently, breath pushing at the steam. Ikael watches him with something like concern, as if prepared to react if he drops it, but nothing ill happens, and after a second his posture relaxes.

“So what did you want to ask me, eh?” Ikael asks once Thancred has taken a sip. He curls up in his chair, drawing his legs up to stick his toes underneath Thancred's mattress. His tail flicks contentedly onto his thigh.

_I want to know how much you want to take from me. How much of what I have do you want me to promise to you?_

“How much,” Thancred asks, “Do I need to give you of myself?”

Ikael blinks at him, not expecting the question. His mouth opens as if to answer, and then closes. He glances away for a moment as he thinks.

His voice has not stumbled once, Thancred realizes. It rarely does, when it is just the two of them. He finds himself wondering what that means.

“You do not need to give me any of yourself, Thancred,” Ikael says simply. “Just as I do not need to give you any of myself.”

Thancred shakes his head, frowning lightly. That is not what he meant. “You must want something,” he presses. “For—for you to stay with me, to give me as much of yourself as you have given me. You must at the very least expect something in return. A—” He swallows. “A promise.”

Ikael cocks his head. He looks at Thancred for a long moment, thoughtful green eyes half-lidded.

“I think I see what you are afraid of,” he says finally, which is the last thing Thancred is prepared for. “You think I will take, yeah? You think I want to take more and more and more of you, and consume you until you have nothing left for yourself.”

Thancred cannot answer that. He glances down at his mug, swallowing dryly. His lashes fall.

He feels gentle fingers tipping his chin up, and when he gives in and looks back up, it is to a smile. “I will not,” Ikael says softly. “You need not promise anything to me, Thancred. It does not make it any…”

He looks away, warm fingers leaving Thancred's chin. “Once upon a time, I would have wanted it, yes,” he admits. “I would have wanted everything, until it was too much and it consumed the both of us. But you are so… you are so _much_ , and you have taught me so much. I have grown. I… You give me only what _you_ want to give me, Thancred. Nothing more, nothing less. If it is a promise, then it is one that only you want to make.”

His eyes lock with Thancred's once more, and they are sincere. “You choose what to give me, not me,” he says simply. “A-and if you ever want to leave, I…”

He swallows, dropping his gaze again. Thancred does not like that his stutter has shown itself. “I will not—” he starts with a frown.

“No.” Ikael’s voice is stern. “Thancred, you listen to me. If you need to, you leave me, even if—even if it hurts. A-and it… it will, gods, it will.” His shoulders droop. “But I will let you go, _sína_ , if you need me to. You are not bound to me. There are no chains holding you to me, said or unsaid.”

Thancred does not reply to that. Instead, he makes himself listen; closes his eyes and plays Ikael’s words over and over in his head until they sink into his mind like black chains in quicksand.

He opens his eyes, and Ikael is watching him, his mouth twisted. Thancred places his mug on the nightstand with effort, and then says, “Come here.”

There is something anguished and ancient on Ikael’s face. He shakes his head, says mutedly, “Thancred…”

“You misunderstand me.” Thancred's voice trembles, just a bit. “I need to hold you. Come _here_.”

Ikael’s expression breaks. He bends down and presses them together, and Thancred pulls him close and holds him as tight as he can with an arm that has lost its strength.

“If that is to be our end, it is not the happy one,” Thancred breathes into a furry ear. “Nor is it the certain one, and I will try my _damndest_ to make sure of that. In fact, I promise. Yeah?”

Ikael pulls back, and there are tears in his eyes. “Yeah,” he repeats through a watery smile.

Thancred takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly even though his ribs ache at it. Ikael hands him his mug again, sniffling discreetly, and Thancred sips at cinnamon-spiced tea.

“So what is that you have been calling me?” Thancred murmurs, managing a teasing smile. “‘See-na’?”

“ _Sína_.” Ikael blushes a little, then clears his throat. “The, ah… there is no Eorzean equivalent, but it is an endearment used by… miqo’te who are… intimate. Close, like old lovers. Not always lovers, which is why I picked it.”

“I am honoured,” Thancred says, soft and honest. “Thank you, Kael.”

Ikael smiles, and for the first time, it is weak. “Roughly, i-it means,” he says, “ _‘The one with who I share a heart.’_ ”

 _Share_. Thancred looks at both mugs, which are identical. He notices now that Ikael’s isn’t empty—it is just around half full, as if Ikael had been waiting for them to drink together. Thancred simply hadn’t been propped up high enough to see.

“Whom,” he corrects with a semi-joking smile.

Ikael rolls his eyes. “Whom, _sivi kírro benaraki,_ ” he says.

“Ironically enough, the only other person who would understand however you just insulted me would agree with me,” Thancred says.

Ikael insults him again, although this time in Eorzean. Thancred begins to reply in kind—and their loving dialogue is interrupted by a harried-looking hume clad in medical robes suddenly rushing into the room.

“The red-headed girl resting in Ward Three,” she says to Ikael, anxiety seeping into her voice, “Are you her… her—her—mo—fath… parent?”

Ikael looks amused; his usual reaction when people stumble around his gender. “Yes, she’s signed in under my name,” he says. “We are her guardians.”

That seems to be good enough. The hume looks relieved. “She is asking for you,” she says. “She doesn’t have permission to be in this ward because she isn’t registered as this gentleman’s kin, but—if you say that she is family…”

“Please, let her in.” Ikael stands, picking up his mug of tea. “Poor dear has probably been worrying herself sick.”

Ryne enters, indeed fretting a large amount, and after a lot of tears and hugs, she calms down. Ikael flits around the room quietly as time passes, not once leaving, even when Ryne has to head back to bed. Eventually, Thancred himself falls asleep, basking in the warmth of his presence.

_He is standing on the same beach as before, but he is alone, and it is sunset. Beside him are black chains, lying broken and dead._

_Thancred looks at them. “I love you,” he says. “I would have given you anything you wanted. But I don’t think it would have been the right thing for me to do.”_

_No one replies. Thancred stares out at the ocean, violet and unending. He sits in the golden sand._

_Far, far away, on the same beach but in a different mind, someone sits next to him._

~*~


End file.
